


Yours In Death

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canonical Character Death, Family, Feanorian OT8, OT8, Other, consensual cannibalism, sexual overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 01:58:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12546264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Fëanáro has one last gift for his sons before he dies.





	Yours In Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uumuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/gifts).



Afterwards not one of them would tell the truth of what had happened there on the hillside. 

The smell of cooked flesh was ripe in the air. In their haste the Fëanorians had brought very little store of food with them from Araman, and the past weeks had not seen any spare time to hunt. All their food was now exhausted, and in the mountains above Mithrim, alone with their father in his dying moments, his charred flesh spoke both to their bodies, to strengthen it, and to their souls, with profound devotion. 

Macalaurë bent to kiss Fëanáro's throat, feeling his fading pulse and his last few breaths. His teeth caught at the burned stripe of flesh that ripped down across his chest, and before conscious thought, he was licking there, feeling the warm richness of the blood seeping into his mouth, the muscle and fat buried just below the skin. Fëanáro, scarcely able to move, with his last gesture pulled Pityafinwë close, smiling, and tore the ruined cloth away from his chest, exposing the wide cut from a fire-whip across the nipple. 

"Eat your fill, my beloved," he crooned, almost too faint for even Elvish ears to hear. "Yours in life, yours in death." 

Fëanáro's eyes drifted shut for the last time, though he still breathed very faintly. On his face was a look of utter peace. Pityafinwë bit into him, chewing fat and gristle, licking at the blood which welled up. 

"Let me have a taste, brother," Telufinwë said, and Pityafinwë rose, his mouth red, and went to Curufinwë, kissing him slowly, passing across a bit of the half-chewed meat as if to a baby bird. Meanwhile Telufinwë carried on what his brother had started, biting further into the cooked flesh, as on the other side of Fëanáro, Maitimo parted his father's thighs, searching for another blow of the fire-whip across his lower body, then took a bite from his inner thigh, warm and dripping grease. Macalaurë took another bite of his father's shoulder meat, then rose, gesturing to Carnistir to kneel where he had been. 

Tyelcormo, a few steps away, built a fire, and as the smoke of it rose into the air, got out his skinning knives and began to sharpen them.


End file.
